Adventure of the Saintly Brothers
by Obsidian Rose Clayton
Summary: This story is somewhat of a co-op between myself and the author under the pen name - The Aeolian Mode. I've taken a recent fascination of Sherlock Holmes and we discussed this idea of if the brothers killed someone and Watson and Sherlock's reactions.
1. Chapter 1

'Et Spiritus Scanti'

Bullets rang through the halls of the courtroom. Mob boss, Yakavetta lay on the ground, silent, unmoving. The boys and their father watched as the disoriented, terrified mass of people rushed out of the courthouse, fearing for their lives. Connor, Murphy and II Duce knew otherwise than to kill innocent people. They even chuckled at their ignorance before the brother flipped out a coin, kneeling down and praying. Each hand placed a penny on Papa Joe's eyes as they looked up for their father's approval. The Duke gave a knowing nod and patted their backs before they walked out into the public, seemingly, unusually unnoticed.

Years have passed before anything spurred their attention. On their way back to the states, the boat that the brothers traveled on stopped in London for another cargo pick up. Connor took a chance and jumped off the edge of the ship, landing, quite proudly, on his feet and throwing his fists in the air. Murphy watched his brother in sheer awe at his maturity, or better yet, lack there of.

'Aw, man. You gotta see this place Murphy. We can do quite a number on this city. Just think about it...' Connor began, pulling his sibling to his shoulder once he was off the boat.

'I swear to God if you even mention something about that mother fucking rope...' Murphy started in reply.

Connor glanced disapprovingly. 'FINE, _FINE._ No more rope for you. We get it.'

He dropped his arm and continued through the port, sliding past people with some clumsy grace. Give him a few hours and he'd stumble back into his 'land legs' again. He heard Murphy in the background, screaming for him, but he continued on. He wasn't going to be a damper on his party this time.

Murphy jogged to match the quick pace his brother set. Connor's steps were brisk, as if he moved with a driven purpose in mind. As MacMacnus the younger finally caught up with the man, he looked up, realizing just why brother dear was determined to get where they were going.

"A pub?" Murphy chuckled out, a smile lighting his face as Connor turned around with a matching grin.

"Aye. I was gittin a little thirsty an the swill on the boat wasn't nearly wettin it." he replied as he pushed the door ajar. Bells hung on the interior chimed at their entrance. The place was dark and seemingly unkept, yet a red-haired plump woman stood behind the counter polishing a glass with a clean rag. Her frown quickly turned right-side up, and it became evident that The Great Harry Wetherspoons' Pub didn't get much business. From the faint smell of char and the newness of the sparse tables and chairs, the boys could tell that there had been quite a fire not a few months ago.

"You'll 'ahvta forgive the mess, gentleman." she called out to them. "Afta the riots, dis place got 'rader burn up. Still in ta process of cleanin it up to be ship-shape again."

Connor's face split in an even wider grin upon hearing the bartender's telling accent colouring her words. It was a strange but pleasant mix of Irish and British. He turned to his brother and gave him a jovial punch on the arm while laughing out, "Sounds like home, ya? Since we're all Irish here, I'd say we share some Jamerson. A drink for you too, miss on ma tab."

"Oh bless you!" she smiled, pulling down the emerald bottle from the shelf behind her. As she gathered three shot glasses, Murphy idly reached for the remote and turned on the ancient telly, earning him a look from his partner.

"What?" he frowned.

"Ya just goin to ingore 'a lady?" Connor muttered, yet loud enough for said party to hear, earning him a wink from under her red hair.

"Just lookin up the news. It's good to know your surroundings."

"Visiting, then? Oh, blast. Forgot to introduce maself. So caught up in the though of 'avin coustomers, you know. T'a name's Bess."

"You col'd say that, Bessie" Connor chimed in, giving a winning smile. "Still lookin for a place to hole up in, tho'."

"...and more on the recent murders. Police suspect that they are connected to the dwindling Chinese Smuggling ring that has been slowly starting to find its footing, as the riots have seemed to stirred up their activity once again. Detective Inspector Lestrade comments..."

"Shesh. Rather dark days, no?" Bessie sighed as she poured the amber liquid into the three glasses before them. "If I knew ya better, I'd let you lads stay scott free... well, not tha free. You see, I need extra hands now that my own brood has left ta Boston. Uni. How de managed to git into 'Arvard, I'll never know."

"Boston?" Murphy pipped. "We were goin dere ourselfs, you know."

"Itsa rough place." she sighed yet again before downing the liquor with the ease of an Irish alcoholic. "If only da Saints could clear up all da crime, den I'd 'ave nothin to worry about for me daughter."

The brothers shared a look and a knowing grin between them before taking their own shots in mirror of each other. Eyes locked, the elder gave a slight nod, causing Murphy to reach into his peat-coat's pocket and drawing out two pennies.

"...when I say we are going back ta Boston..." he softly spoke, dropping the American coins on the bar's dark marble counter.

The only sounds in the pub was the faint din of politics from the telly and the spin of one of the pennies against stone.

"W-well, then." Bessie stammered in a mere whisper. "I guess I do know you well enouf to board you here."

Half an hour later and quite a number of shots, ('drinks betwizt friends are all on da 'ouse, lads. Besides, I need to calm my nerves. Bless you! The very Saints in this little shit-hole!' she had said,) the MacManus brothers found themselves laying on a queen sized bed in a girly, but comfortable room, smiles on their faces, rosaries draped on opposite bed posts. Connor found himself cuddling a floral, ornamental pillow in joy.

"Wish we had this much of a reception every'whar." Murphy giggled, mostly at the sight of his elder being more childish than himself.

"Stuff it. It smells nice. All girly and shit. Like cuddlin the lady herself. You saw Bess and her rack. Imagine Bess the younger."

"You stuff it. If our lady in land hears that shit, you're find yourself fucked out of a room in no time. Besides, she's probably a nerd. Harvard? Think.. Fat nerdy ginger. Pimples and glasses..."

"Ew, ew. Stop fucking ruining it."

They both giggled like boarding students before collectively sighing and shutting their eyes.

"...the shit about the gang. You catch that?" Murphy murmured in a serious tone once their puerile thoughts of boobs had worn off.

"Aye. Looks like we have some work here after all."

-Break-

The metal clanked against itself in the pack and they hurried off into a nearby factory, Wollwich or something. The boys neither cared nor wanted to care. It was an empty building with no witnesses. Inside, they stopped, the daylight being the only source through the cracked, dirty windows and the swirling staircase was dimly lit. They passed wary glanced at each other and continued into the dark protection of the abandoned structure. Writing was everywhere; the locals had graffiti'd their thoughts on the matter in poetic and simple spray-paint. Despite the evidence of it being used, the two found themselves completely alone. Perfect.

They dropped their packs next to each other, ripping them open simultaneously with practiced hands. After rummaging through their black turtlenecks and other materials, they pulled out familiar beads wrapped around the cold steel of four guns, one for each hand. The brothers lifted their Barettas with reverence, placing them gently on the ground and slipped out of their white t-shirts, replacing them with their signature black turtlenecks. Sliding on their black jackets once again, the two brothers fixed the silencers of their guns. The silence itself was palatable... until

The sound of metal tapped against the concrete floor and Murphy flipped around, his gun aimed in the general direction, eyes flitting back and forth trying to locate the source of the interruption. Connor tightened his barrel and took aim next to his brother. From the shadows, a small Chinese woman stepped into a ray of light that spilled from the windows.

An unassuming homeless and elderly lady stepped out, cane tapping against the concrete in sweeping motions. Large and somewhat comical sunglasses covered her face.

She was blind.

For a minute, the brothers dropped their aim and let down their guard, holding their breath.

"Anyone there now?" she asked, her face looking somewhat in their area though not on their position.

"Err... no. Just... uh. Spray-painters. Up to no good." Connor grumbled as he ruffled his bag, quickly stowing his guns and making sure to let the metal clank together to give the impression of cans.

"I no look for you. I look for Sherlock Holmes." the woman stated, as if it meant nothing to her. "Him? You know?"

"Er. No. Not really." Murphy mumbled as he mimicked his brother.

"Ah. Best go, then. Police check regularly."

As easily as she slipped into the light, her presence disappeared into the shadows, almost a figment of their imagination.

Murphy let out a breath that he didn't realize he was holding. "That was..."

"Yeah. Tonight. I think... we just had our little taste of the Syndicate." Connor's voice was airy as he too let out a rush of air from his lungs, the tension leaving his shoulders.

"Should we follow her?"

"You read my mind."


	2. Chapter 2

It was an average cold day in London. Sherlock sat perched on the balls of his feet in the stylish black leather armchair... as usual. He was quiet, in one of his silent moods that could last for days without a single word passing through his lips. John returned to the living room with a teacup in each hand, offering one to Sherlock once he had sat down. Surprisingly, Sherlock accepted the cup and took a sip of his tea, examining his flatmate over the lip.

'Sherlock, you're doing it again.' John muttered under his breath.

'Doing what?' Sherlock replied, earning a shocked look from his flatmate. Seems like the ice had finally broken; it was the first response he had gotten in a while, despite offering tea in the same manner this whole week.

'...You're studying me.' John explained after being momentarily stupefied by the reply, or rather, the fact he got a reply in the first place.

'John, how many time do I have to tell you, I'm observing you. Not studying. Studying implies that I'm going to take a test as if we were in a Uni together. Looking doesn't work either, as I'm doing much more than just a casual glance. Staring at-definitely not. I'm not _checking _you out. Observing it is. You know I hate repetition. You're wearing the same shirt you did last week. Run out of laundry? Did you decide to wear the most gently used of your dirty pile?'

John let out a sigh and took another sip, his eyes closed in emotional exhaustion. Dear lord. Of course, the first things out of his mouth would be insulting. Of course. At least he wasn't shooting the walls or examining decapitated heads again.

Sherlock hummed at John's lack of retort, so he decided to voice his findings. 'You haven't slept enou-no. You called it a night early, yet you are mentally drained. Conclusion, you did not sleep well despite logging more than enough hours. Thus, it's only reasonable to say that you had another nightmare regarding your time in Afgana-.'

'Yes Sherlock, well done. Please, continue.' Watson almost hissed, is sarcasm dripping from every word. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but he was interrupted when Lestrade and dashed into the scene.

'Sherlock, you're needed. The Black Lotus. They aren't finished.' Lestrade huffed. scurried to the kitchen for a moment, returning with a plastic bottle of water for the flushed Detective Inspector. Thanking her, he turned back to Sherlock. 'And we have another murder on our hands.'

Sherlock didn't seem to be phased as he set his cup on the platter. Despite his calm exterior, John knew that behind bright blue eyes, Sherlock's mind was held in rapt attention to the Detective's every word.

"Continue." was all he said.

"Shouldn't you, ah, come along with?" Greg muttered before taking another swig of water. "Every detail is hard to relate, and God knows I've forgotten half of the information already. Well, by your standards that is. We can't all be geniuses."

The consulting detective hummed again, but it held more of an amused tone to it.

"It's at least an eight, don't you think?" John chimed, prodding Sherlock's shoulder. The recipient of the gesture teetered a bit in his chair and glared at his only friend.

"Mafias and the like are usually around a six or so. While intricate, they tend to follow the same patterns..." He began, only to trail off when it looked like John had more to say.

"But, don't you remember what... our... uhm, _friendly bomber_ said at the pool? It's likely that he has his grubby hands in on this somehow."

With that tidbit of a comment, Sherlock's hands flew to the armrests of the chair and he lifted himself off in a graceful hop and stripped out of his bathrobe and flinging it into his room in one deft motion.

John frowned, wishing for once that his roommate wasn't so cool. It made him look so very ordinary in comparison to his effortless beauty, both in body and in mind.


End file.
